


Occupational Hazard [discontinued]

by windsweptfic



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (2010), The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fusion, M/M, fluffy fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-30
Updated: 2012-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-30 08:26:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windsweptfic/pseuds/windsweptfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little known fact: Philip Jonathan Coulson is from a place known as Berk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the brainchild of myself and [sexyspork](http://sexyspork.livejournal.com/) on LJ. Don't worry, there will be no human-on-dragon relationships. 
> 
> Sorta.

Over the course of Berk's existence as Those Who Rode Dragons, only four people had ever ridden a Night Fury.

The first and most famous was, of course, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III. He was the First Rider, the revered chieftain who rode the dragon Toothless (later renamed to Toothless the Terrible, as Vikings just couldn't leave well enough alone) and who slew the Red Death. He released the dragons from their servitude and formed bonds of friendship that lasted centuries after he passed, building Berk up from a humble little town to a majestic city that rose high above the cliffs.

The second had been Hiccup's son, who rode Toothless the Terrible's offspring. But after those two Night Furies, the breed was rarely seen again. A century later Weland the Wearying would capture a Night Fury and force it to carry him (he was later found mysteriously burned to a crisp and no one had really batted an eyelash), but the historians were unsure if he could actually count. There was Brunhild the Beautiful who nursed an injured Night Fury back to health, and then came Donar the Dashing Daredevil that Defeated the Dangerous Duke of Denmark. (After he befriended a young Night Fury and thus cemented his place in the record books, a law was passed prohibiting anyone from having more than two additional surnames.)

These four Riders were known to all descendents of Berk, passed on as legends through the ages even as the dragon population dwindled. Humanity and technology had put a fatal dent in their numbers, hunted down for trophies or clipped by airplanes or their homes destroyed by expansion. Now there were only a few dozen left, kept safe in Berk by their fierce human counterparts, who didn't let any who wasn't a native even enter the city. There were rumors of wild dragons who had hidden themselves away, but the scouts that Berk sent out across the globe every year to search for their lost dragon companions always came back empty-handed. Over time, the rumors had become myths and legends.

Phillip Jonathan Coulson (also known as Phillip the Patient behind his back, because the need for extra titles was written into Berkians' blood, even if the man in question scoffed at the idea) was quickly revising his long-held opinion that the only dragons left lived in Berk.

It had something to do with the trapped Night Fury thrashing around in front of him, pinned beneath thick titanium cables that bound it to the floor of the SHIELD helicarrier's cargo hold. It was small for its breed, covered in gashes and dirt; its mouth kept tightly shut with a band of tungsten steel. Panicked, angry blue eyes glittered as it heaved against its bindings, and Phil knew that the dragon would remember every single human who had laid a hand on it.

 _"Stop!"_ he bellowed, stalking forward. Both agents and dragon alike froze at the controlled rage in his voice, the operatives slinking away from the Night Fury obediently. Phil found himself fixed with an intensely intelligent bright blue gaze, but he didn't allow it to deter him as he walked up to the Night Fury, eyes softening in pain at the dragon's state. He raised a hand to the scar slashed over its left eye, hovering above the scales but not touching as it recoiled away.

"Explain," Phil ordered, cool and sharp as he turned to the shuffling agents. They didn't understand what they had done, but that didn't make him any less angry. One brave soul stepped forward.

"We found it in Doctor Doom's lab, sir," she replied, firm but wary. "Director Fury told us to bring it back to HQ immediately."

"Why isn't he here?" Phil demanded. Nick and Natasha had been gone a few weeks, overseeing the infiltration and destruction of Doom's massive underground lab. They'd finally struck today—he knew the mission was a success when Tasha had phoned him afterward, breathlessly triumphant, to tell him to meet the helicarrier as soon as it set down. He could see why, now. Only those two knew he was from Berk; that he knew the ways of dragons, and would know how to deal with the situation.

"Director Fury and Black Widow decided to stay and...clean up," the agent replied, going a little green. It was a look Phil usually saw after someone witnessed the deadly couple in action: they were sleek, efficient, and terrifyingly vicious. Especially when it came to innocents being harmed.

Phil's shoulders eased a little, but he still shook his head, pointing to the cargo bay doors.

"Get out. Go fill out your paperwork." He glanced back at the Night Fury, who was watching him keenly. "One of you bring back a bucket of fish."

To her credit, the agent didn't question the rather bizarre order.

"What kind, sir?"

Phil shrugged, turning his back on her dismissively as he went to tend to the captive dragon.

"Doesn't matter. Anything but eel."

The sound of boots against steel floors slowly faded into the distance as Phil looked at the Night Fury, assessing its state. He hadn't really been involved with any of the living dragons during his childhood in Berk, but he, like all who were born in the city, still knew how to care for one. He spread his hands non-threateningly, taking a few steps forward that were followed by sharp blue eyes.

"I'm not going to hurt you, little dragonling," he said gently. The Night Fury was young—around sixty human years old, by its size and the softer markings on its scales. That was still an infant in terms of a dragon's lifetime. "I'm here to help."

The Night Fury shifted beneath its bindings, eyeing him guardedly. He stopped by one of the crates retrieved from Doom's lab to lay down his weapons before advancing further, a small armory heaped behind him atop the box before he continued.

"My name is Phil," he said as he approached the dragon's head, eyeing the band around its mouth. "I was raised in Berk; I know your kind. You don't have to be afraid of me."

He reached out a hand, fingers outstretched but not touching the dragon. The Night Fury looked at them, then at Phil, its eyes narrowing flatly. But after a few moments it stretched out its neck to bump its nose against Phil's hand: just a quick, brief brush, that signified it would do him no harm. He let out a slow breath and reached up to remove the band from the Night Fury's snout.

As soon as it was free the dragon parted its mouth wide, teeth bared. Phil froze in place—he was a highly trained SHIELD agent but this was a _dragon_ ; a Night Fury no less—but the young dragonling just chomped down a few times, wrinkling its nose as it shifted its jaw back into a more natural position. When it was done it looked back at Phil, blinking curiously before suddenly flopping down on the floor, watching him with an expectant expression as he moved to the rest of the cables.

When enough of the cables were gone, the dragonling was able to squirm free, leaping to its feet. It wriggled itself like a dog shaking off water, wings stretching out to their full length in a full-body stretch, and Phil spared a moment to be grateful that they hadn't come across one of the larger breeds. (While deep inside, the boyish part of him still lingering about was absolutely _giddy_ he was actually able to see a Night Fury up close.) Then the dragon turned its attention to Phil and he took a wary step back at the look in its eyes, bright and curious and eager.

"Feeling better?" he asked.

The dragon let out a pleased chirp and the next instant Phil found himself pressed back against a crate, a sleek head nuzzling against his side like a kitten. The limited knowledge on Night Furies had them varying widely in their personalities, but they were always marked by incredibly high intellect. He reached out to pet its head gently, stroking the smooth scales. Up close he could get a look at the ridging on the Night Fury's back: the pattern marked it as a male.

"And just what were you doing in Doom's lab, little one?" he murmured as he allowed the dragonling to press him down to the floor, sitting with his back against a crate. There was scarring on the Night Fury's body, and signs of malnourishment that made his chest clench—and as if able to sense his disquiet the dragonling lifted his head to look up at him with intense blue eyes, cooing softly and somehow managing to convey a feeling of sadness.

"You understand everything I'm saying, don't you?" Phil said, scratching behind the dragon's ear. "With those eyes of yours, I'll bet you see everything. Maybe I should call you a little hawkeye?"

The Night Fury let out a little chirp of approval and wriggled until he could nestle against Phil's side, wrapping his tail around him and effectively preventing him from leaving. Phil looked down at the sleek black head in his lap, smoothing his palm down the newly-christened Hawkeye's snout, fingers brushing over the scar across his eye.

"Don't worry," he said softly. "No one will hurt you again."


	2. Chapter 2

"I cannot believe I'm actually looking at a dragon right now."

"You knew of the existence of Berk," Phil pointed out, unconcerned as Tony stared at Hawkeye. The dragonling was currently devouring the bucket of fish that had been brought to the cargo bay, cooing contentedly as he swallowed down a whole Chilean sea bass. He'd been wary when the three Avengers had arrived, growling and stepping in front of Phil, but after a few soothing words and touches he'd immediately taken to the new humans—Steve in particular, who revealed he'd had salmon for lunch.

"Dragons have long been present in the Nine Realms," Thor put in, scratching Hawkeye's back. "They are considered the greatest hunt of all, the most ancient and worthy foe."

Hawkeye craned his neck around to give Thor a _look_ , and the god smiled sheepishly.

"Of course, I would never partake in such an activity," he assured the dragon. Hawkeye looked like he knew it was a lie, but he just grunted and shoved his face back into the pile of fish.

"Knowing dragons existed somewhere and actually seeing one up close are two completely different things," Tony pointed out. He glanced at Phil sourly. "Especially since you people keep them all to yourselves. Why did I never know you were from Dragon City, anyway?"

"I have higher clearance than you," Phil replied smoothly. A smile touched his lips as Hawkeye wriggled beneath Thor's hands, squirming and nudging at the Asgardian to indicate where he wanted to be petted. "And most of Berk's technology comes from Wakanda. We know how to cover our tracks."

"Wakanda!" Tony grimaced. "If they ever decided to put their technology on the world market, Pepper would be _pissed_."

"Isn't competition a good thing?" Steve asked absently, watching Hawkeye with a boyishly awed expression. Tony snorted.

"Not if you own the multi-billion-dollar company that has dominated the industry for the past seventy years. It's really the principle of the thing. Stark hasn't been anything but number one for decades."

"Your poor ego," Phil deadpanned.

Having finished the bucket of fish, Hawkeye allowed Thor a final pat before bounding across the cargo hold to Phil's side, rubbing up against him with a soft cooing sound. Phil knew dragons could get attached but he'd never heard of one becoming attached so quickly—it likely had something to do with Hawkeye's imprisonment at Doom's hands, and he wondered not for the first time how long he had been there. He stroked the dragonling's head fondly, smiling when bright blue eyes crinkled at him.

"I see you've met our new friend."

Phil was used to Nick popping up out of nowhere, so he wasn't terribly surprised when the Director's voice rang through the cargo hold. He _was_ surprised, however, when Hawkeye's head jerked around, the dragonling's body quivering beneath his hands. A second later Hawkeye was bounding away from him with a gleefully happy crow, the floor shaking beneath them as he raced over to the two newcomers. Natasha wisely stepped out of the way as Nick stood his ground, reaching out like it was the most normal thing in the world to pet Hawkeye as the young dragonling rubbed his face against him, chattering excitedly in chirps and coos as he licked at Nick's face and nosed beneath his leather duster.

"You two need a moment alone there, Fury?" Tony drawled. Fury ignored him as he smiled down at the eager dragonling, reaching down to scratch the spot beneath his jaw that immediately sent Hawkeye sprawling boneless to the floor.

Phil watched, blankly.

"Actually, yes, Stark. Go do something useful. Elsewhere."

Tony snorted but did start wandering in the direction of the door: Phil suspected he already had a plan of trying to reverse-engineer some Wakandan tech again (and failing, inevitably). Steve trotted after him obediently and Thor cast a longing look back at Hawkeye before following.

"You too, Phil."

Phil looked at Nick in surprise.

"Sir?"

"Just for a few minutes," Nick reassured him. There was a tone of command in his voice that he didn't often use, not with Phil, and it demanded instant obedience. But Phil still hesitated, watching as Hawkeye padded over to nuzzle at Natasha's hip. He didn't want to leave the young dragon alone, even though he knew that he would be in safe hands. It took twenty years of drilled-in training to turn his feet to the door and force his legs to move him forward.

He only got three steps before Hawkeye was skidding to a halt in front of him, blue eyes wide and panicked as he let out a soft whine. Phil reached out to rub his fingers over the dragonling's snout, surprised.

"It's okay," he said gently. "I'll be right back, I promise."

Hawkeye didn't budge. He looked between Phil and Nick unhappily, letting out a few plaintive chirps. He seemed to settle a little as Phil pet him but still refused to move, and after a few moments Nick let out a quiet breath.

"Alright, if that's what you want. He can stay."

Hawkeye _beamed_ , chittering happily as he nudged Phil back toward the other two, walking alongside him like an overgrown pet. He flopped back down on the floor between them, rolling onto his side and squirming around for a bit before settling, wide blue eyes looking up at them expectantly. Phil raised an eyebrow at his commander and friend.

"This can never leave this room," Nick began. It was a phrase Phil had heard hundreds of times during his tenure in the military and at SHIELD, but the way Nick said it this time, he knew it was different. He knew something had changed. The doors bolted shut as Natasha flipped on the security system and Phil adjusted his stance, preparing for whatever was to come.

"We've stayed hidden for centuries," Nick continued as he knelt at Hawkeye's side, reaching out to rub the strong muscles along his wing. Hawkeye purred contentedly, scooting a little closer so he could press his face against Nick's knee. "This is the only way we could survive: through adaptation; through camouflage."

He glanced over at Natasha, and as she stepped away, spreading her arms out to the sides, Phil felt the beginnings of disbelieving understanding trickle through his mind.

Silver light glittered in the air in wispy tendrils of magic as Natasha's skin began to glow with an unearthly light. A soft smile was on her lips even as the outline of her body _shifted_ , expanding fluidly outward, flowing into a more solid shape that bore wings and claws and was roughly the height of a giraffe. Sleek lines and graceful curves shone in the light of the cargo hold, and by the way the appearance of her scales shifted from one second to another, Phil knew she was holding onto the illusion to keep herself visible.

 _'Stealth dragon,'_ his mind informed him, calm and bland. _'Unparalleled speed, ability to bend the light to remain invisible; commands lightning as well as fire. Very rare, very deadly.'_

Phil stared up at the dragon that he knew was a woman who he'd known and fought next to for years. The part of him that wasn't reconciling the fact that dragons could shapeshift into human form was clinically committing the sight to memory, noting where the Dragon Manual had been right and where it had been wrong. He glanced down to find Hawkeye wriggling happily, the dragonling looking up at the older dragon as though he hadn't been able to tell the difference between her forms. And Nick was watching him, intent and wary, and a miniscule frown creased Phil's forehead.

"'Nick Fury'," he said, flatly. "Night Fury. Correct?"

Nick nodded.

"You," Phil informed him, "Have the worst imagination _ever_."

A low rumble shook the cargo hold as Natasha laughed, the sound deep and chortling as little puffs of smoke escaped her nostrils. She lowered her long neck to bump her snout against Hawkeye's wing and the dragonling rolled over onto his back with a pleased mewl, legs flailing delightedly in the air as she nuzzled his belly. The room shook as the two dragons played, and Nick adroitly dodged Hawkeye's flailing tail to walk over to Phil's side.

Phil watched as Hawkeye rolled to his feet and dashed across the cargo hold, using the bulkhead as a springboard as Natasha gave chase, her sleek body lithe and shimmering as she darted amongst the storage crates.

"I don't understand," he admitted quietly. "Why you never..."

"We loved Berk, you know," Nick replied, his voice distant and faraway. "Us dragons. We were happy there for so many centuries. It was never your people who were the problem, Phil. But the rest of the world was too hostile; the people too frightened and ignorant. You couldn't protect us forever and we knew that. We were hunted, and we were dying."

Natasha managed to pin Hawkeye down with both forelegs, practically sitting on the small, quick dragonling in order to keep him from moving. Hawkeye let out a huff of smoke but went limp, allowing Natasha to pull him closer against her, curling her tail around his body protectively. He nuzzled into the crook of her neck and sprawled out across her, one foot twitching as he allowed himself a few moments of rest.

"How long have you been hiding?" Phil asked.

"Two hundred years or so. I only met a handful of our kind during that time; Natasha was the last. With the way things have changed now, given the dawn of superheroes and magic returned to the world, we might be able to return to our natural forms—but it is easier this way. And after a few decades in human form, you learn to adjust. It becomes second nature." Nick let out a soft breath. "It took us a long time to figure out how to shift, how to use the magic we have innately to change our very beings. Sometimes Tasha and I wonder how much dragon is still left in us."

Phil was quiet for a while, just looking at the two dragons curled up together. Hawkeye was so small compared to Natasha, so lean and breakable, and he didn't know if it was the fact he was from Berk or just the fact that it killed him to see so grand a creature hurting, but Phil knew he was going to do everything in his power to keep the dragonling safe.

"He can't change like you two, can he?"

Nick shook his head.

"I don't think so. He's so young, and given his captivity...I don't know if he was ever shown how. He can't see the difference between dragon and human when he looks at us—he doesn't know why we choose these forms, what reasoning we have behind it. We'll teach him, of course, but it's something that normally is instinctive. And we can't be here all the time."

Phil understood.

"I'll take care of him." His lips quirked up. "But you already knew that."

Nick cast him a sly, sidelong grin.

"The possibility had crossed my mind. You're the first person to show him kindness in what I think has been a long time, Phil," he said, smile fading. "He trusts you. He _likes_ you. And he's not going to leave your side."

"I'll take care of him," Phil repeated, quiet and determined. Nick smiled at him, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder.

"There's no one else I would trust with one of my kindred," he said softly. He turned to go but Phil stopped him with a light touch on his arm.

"What's his name?" he asked, nodding to the slumbering dragonling. "His actual name, not the one I made up for him."

Nick let out a laugh.

"You don't have the anatomy capable of pronouncing it. But, roughly translated? It's Clint."

Nick continued toward the two dragons and, ever sensitive to any kind of noise, both raised their heads as he approached.

And the first person Clint looked to was Phil.


	3. Chapter 3

"Clint! Clint, bring that back here!"

Bright blue eyes laughed at Phil as he shouted after the precocious Night Fury, an expensive recurve bow clenched in Clint's mouth as he darted away. It was the dragonling's new favorite chew toy, and Phil couldn't help but wince with each chomp of sharp teeth, knowing that the bow probably cost the equivalent of a year's salary.

Not that the techs down in Experimental Weaponry would dare say anything. During the week since Clint had taken up residence in one of the helicarrier's cargo bays, it had become very clear that Director Fury adored the chaos-raising little hellion. There was now a standing order in Provisions for daily fresh fish (with an emphasis on tilapia, Clint's favorite), their local Bed Bath and Beyond had been cleaned out of comforters to make a soft nest for the dragonling, and if anyone complained about the helicarrier sometimes shaking as Clint bounced around in the cargo hold, they would immediately receive the patented 'complain and die, motherfucker' one-eyed glare.

It could be accounted to the fact that Nick had finally found another Night Fury, but Phil was fairly certain that Clint had won Nick's heart over all on his own.

Phil had gone home, the first night, after a long day of tending to the excitable dragonling. He'd arrived back at HQ to dead-eyed agents and empty pots of coffee, and while no one spoke against his young charge, it was apparent Clint had kept everyone up with his wailing. He slept on the helicarrier the second day but stumbled out of his room around midnight to join the dragonling in the cargo hold, passing out against Clint's side amidst the mounds of comforters. The young Night Fury was like a heater and he didn't cry when Phil was there, and the next morning he'd been showered with praise and little gifts like an upgraded sidearm and coffee from the local café as the other agents tried to reinforce his good behavior that let them sleep.

It was incredibly amusing, though Phil was a tad insulted that they thought he would be so easily psychologically manipulated.

He'd stayed in the cargo hold every night since. He tried, twice, to install a bed or cot of some sort, but both attempts had ended badly. The first one broke in the middle of the night when Clint tried to crawl under the blankets with him, and the young dragonling didn't even bother to pretend the second wasn't sabotage. As soon as the bed was put down Clint had walked over and looked right at Phil as he sat on it, reducing the frame to little more than splinters.

As Clint showed no sign of repentance or returning with the bow, Phil grabbed the laser sight he'd stripped off an old rifle and climbed up onto one of the crates. Clint was halfway across the cargo hold but that didn't keep him from seeing the little red dot on the bulkhead above him. The dragonling skidded to a halt, frozen in place as he looked up at the spot of light. Slowly, he laid the bow gently on the ground, making no noise as he scooted forward in a low crouch. His tail flicked back and forth in concentration.

When he pounced the entire room shook, but Phil just laughed as Clint went skittering after the laser point, chirping excitedly all the while. The young Night Fury had made it clear from the beginning that he knew exactly what was going on, pointedly batting at the laser sight in Phil's hand the first time they played before deigning to chase after it. Clint had developed a clear personality since he'd arrived, some of the innocent wonder fading as he watched and learned the things around him. He was a trickster at heart, unrepentant when he jumped out from behind a crate to startle Thor, or blinking innocently at Tony after he'd just regurgitated a half-eaten trout onto the man's new Caraceni suit.

He'd learned how to get what he wanted within hours of meeting the Avengers: cooing softly at Steve; offering his head for Bruce to feel the texture of his scales. Sometimes Phil caught Clint looking at him, calculating and speculative, and he knew that the dragonling's diffidence was only partly true. Clint chose to stay with them as much as he chose to pretend ignorance, and it wasn't too difficult for Phil to guess why.

Doom's notes had been brought back to base and thoroughly dissected, with his information on Clint the first to be catalogued. The power-hungry doctor's initial awe and giddiness over discovering the dragonling was sentient had quickly turned manipulative, his attempts at communication and understanding becoming experiments instead as his patience waned. When he demanded obedience Clint wasn't able to pretend he didn't understand—he had already established his intelligence when he tried to converse with the man he thought was a friend. And every act of defiance only angered the doctor further: there were carefully recorded lists of the punishments he'd dealt out to the trapped Night Fury, and they all made Phil's blood boil.

Whatever naiveté Clint had retained from being young and alone most of his life had died in Doom's lab.

Clint trotted over, already bored with the laser. He flopped down on the nest of blankets and looked at Phil expectantly; Phil chuckled and climbed down from the crate. He grabbed some of his paperwork and joined Clint on the bedding, leaning against the dragonling's warm side as Clint tucked his tail around him, his snout resting on Phil's thigh. Phil stroked the smooth scales on Clint's head to a rumbling purr of contentment.

"No one's going to hurt you here, you know," he murmured, paperwork briefly forgotten. "Nick would kill anyone who tried. Natasha...well, she would kill them eventually. But I don't intend to let anyone even get close. We'll protect you. _I'll_ protect you. I'll keep you safe."

Clint let out a low, soft croon, bright blue eyes looking up at Phil. There was something fond in the dragonling's gaze, something hopeful, and Phil smiled at him gently before leaning down to press a kiss to his nose.

"You can trust us, Clint."

And apparently the world had decided to end at that moment, because Phil's comm unit started buzzing frantically, startling them both out of their little reverie. He pried the thing from his belt.

"Coulson."

_"Coulson, it's Sitwell. We need you on deck, the USAF is bitching about airspace control again."_

Phil reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"Why can't you deal with it? And where's Hill?"

 _"She's out dealing with the latest publicity shitstorm,"_ Sitwell replied snippily, and Coulson wondered if the man had actually been serious when he'd joked that Clint was stealing him away from everyone else. He very resolutely put that thought out of his mind.

 _"And they don't want to talk to me,"_ Sitwell continued. _"They want to talk to **you**. I don't get it, it's not like you have a higher rank than me..."_

Phil wisely didn't correct him as he levered himself to his feet, trying to ignore the unhappy whine Clint let out as he did.

"Fine. I'm on my way."

_"Oh, well **thank you** , great almighty Agent Coul—"_

Phil shoved the comm back into his belt, leaning down to rub his fingers soothingly over one of Clint's ears.

"Duty calls. Or whines, as the case may be."

Clint lifted himself from the floor, nudging at Phil's hand with a forlorn chirrup, and Phil felt a wave of guilt wash through him. He knew he couldn't stay with the dragonling at all hours: he was still SHIELD, and he still had a job to do, even if Nick had lightened the load somewhat. But before the dust in Doom's laboratory had even settled, the doctor had raised all hell, and the Avengers had been called to Latveria to deal with the situation in a way that didn't involve nuclear war. It didn't give Nick and Natasha a lot of free time to visit, and with Phil dealing with things on the home front, Clint was left alone for extended periods of time.

Phil reluctantly headed toward the door, pausing as Clint determinedly followed after him. The Night Fury's eyes were fixed on him, sad and maybe a little bit hurt, and it absolutely killed him. He leaned down to be eye-level with the dragonling, rubbing his palm along Clint's jaw.

"Sorry, Clint, but you have to stay here," he said gently. "I'll be back soon."

Clint made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a scoff, and Phil had to admit that the 'soon' was terribly optimistic. He straightened to go only to find himself bowled over and pinned down an instant later, bright blue eyes looking down at him petulantly, and he couldn't help but laugh.

He reached up to scratch Clint's neck fondly. The dragonling was exercising just enough control to keep from crushing him, still without allowing him to squirm free.

"I wish you could come with me, but you're just a little too big to fit in the rest of the helicarrier. I promise I'll make it up to you when I get back, alright?"

Clint wrinkled his nose, pulling back to eye Phil suspiciously. That sharp look flashed in his eyes again—and then Phil was squinting as an entirely different flash nearly blinded him, closing his eyes against the bright purple light that seemed to supernova beneath his eyelids. 

The weight atop him shifted and lessened and Phil had just a brief, dizzying moment to comprehend why before a soft voice spoke above him. It was raspy and rough like a smoker who went through three packs a day, and wavering as though the vocal chords used to produce it were unfamiliar with their own function.

"Can I come now?"

Phil blinked away the white spots dancing in his vision and looked up at the man now straddling him.

He was of indeterminate age, but definitely an adult by human standards. Tousled dirty blond hair was cut ragged and long, the bangs falling across his face obscuring his eyes, but the fact that stood out the most to Phil was that he was very, very naked. Scars striped across his bare torso and arms and Phil very resolutely Did Not Look further down, focusing instead on the intent gaze watching him. He reached up to brush mussed hair out of the way and couldn't help but smile gently as familiar blue eyes looked back at him.

"Well," he said softly. "Hello there."

Clint watched Phil's mouth move curiously, tilting his head to the side. One side of his mouth curled up, then the other; and then a full-on beaming grin broke across his face. He flopped across Phil's chest, wrapping his arms around him and tucking his face into his neck as that low voice spoke again, the action shy but the reply merrily gleeful.

"Hi."


	4. Chapter 4

"You smell good."

Phil arched an eyebrow as Clint nuzzled against his neck, reaching up to smooth a hand across the dragonling-turned-human's bare shoulder. He'd always been casual with his touches when it came to Clint and he didn't want to dissuade him from shifting into human form by not continuing that trend. Clint seemed like he _thrived_ on touch, craving it desperately, and Phil was versatile enough to not let the fact that the Night Fury as a man was positively _gorgeous_ change anything between them.

Then Clint licked his jaw and Phil had to quickly reconsider his ability to stay professionally neutral.

"Taste good, too."

Phil laughed, a little breathlessly.

"Considering your favorite flavors all seem to involve raw fish, I'm not sure if I should take that as a compliment or not."

Clint grinned, the expression unabashed and bright, and Phil could only stare mutely for a few long moments, drinking in the view. He finally managed to pull together what wisps of brain matter he still had left to push himself up, Clint obligingly rolling off him. When he was sitting he turned his attention to Clint fully, taking in the sharp angles of the man's body. He was lithe and lean: almost painfully so, the suggestion of ribs pressing up in ridges down his chest. The scars Phil had seen on his torso and arms extended across the entirety of his body: long lines cut across his back and shoulders, smaller marks on his thighs and calves.

Apparently self-conscious of his newfound form, Clint ducked his head as Phil took a little longer than necessary to look him over. He glanced up shyly from beneath his mussed bangs, a hint of that playful glint still bright in his eyes.

"Well?"

Phil couldn't help but smile.

"You're beautiful no matter what form you take."

A surprised look flashed in Clint's eyes, a flush darkening his cheeks. He would be wearing his heart on his sleeve until he figured out how to mask his emotions, and Phil found he wasn't exactly looking forward to that day.

Clint made to push himself to his feet so Phil reached out, grasping him by the arm as he helped him stand.

"Easy, now. You've got a completely new set of balance to get used to."

Clint made a dismissive noise of acknowledgement. He took a few shaky, wobbling steps forward, leaning heavily on Phil as he did so, and Phil couldn't help the fondness that softened his eyes. Clint the human was just as stubborn as Clint the dragon; just as equally proud and determined and endearing

"Not so hard," Clint sniffed. He pushed away from Phil, arms spread out for balance as he took a few more steps, quickly getting the hang of things. He looked over his shoulder at Phil with a grin and dropped his arms to his sides, turning back around—but his ankles got tangled up and Phil had to lunge forward to catch him.

He grabbed Clint round the waist, one hand on the small of his back; the other wrapping around his shoulders. Clint made a muttered sound of discontent and Phil chuckled, reaching up to stroke his fingers down the back of his neck reassuringly. Clint let out a small, strangled whimper, and that was all the warning Phil had before he suddenly found himself with an armful of dragonling. He looked down at Clint's mess of hair anxiously, all the coordination seemingly gone from the younger man's body.

"Clint? Are you alright?"

"Uhn," Clint mumbled. He lolled his head back, revealing wide, dark blue eyes, his pupils twice their normal diameter. A blissed-out expression was on his features and Phil stubbornly refused to be embarrassed as he realized what had just happened. He eased Clint down onto the mounds of blankets gently.

"You must not be used to having skin yet," he explained to Clint's dazed, questioning look. "It's—far more sensitive than scales."

"'s like havin' m'soft spot ev'rywhere," Clint slurred. He nuzzled his face into the soft comforter beneath his cheek with a low, contented noise. And because he was a bad, bad man, Phil couldn't help but wonder if that would make Clint's neck even more sensitive in his human form; what it would be like if he were to press his lips against the soft skin of his throat. He hastily shoved that thought away and reached down to comb his fingers comfortingly through Clint's hair instead. The man _purred_ , throaty and deep.

"Just stay here and relax for a bit, alright?" Phil said, a little hoarsely. "Try to get used to things. I'll be back just as soon as I deal with Sitwell."

Clint let out a low noise of protest, his hand reaching up to bat at Phil before he found a wrist to hang onto. Bright blue eyes looked up at him pleadingly.

"Wanna come. Don't leave me?"

Phil withstood that face for about two seconds before his resolve disintegrated like a wet tissue.

"Okay. Alright. Just. You're going to have to put on clothes."

"I can put on clothes," Clint declared stubbornly.

And, in Clint's defense, he _could_.

"What are these?!"

He just didn't _want_ to.

"They're shoes," Phil replied patiently, grabbing Clint's flailing right foot and shoving a boot onto it. He'd managed to get the wriggling man into a pair of military-issue cargo pants and a t-shirt—forgoing underwear and socks for now, because there is only so much one can do—but Clint balked at having something encasing his feet. He twitched resentfully as Phil pinned down his leg and laced the boot up quickly, a full-body shiver running through him every so often as fabric brushed against the more sensitive sections of his skin.

"Why do you _do_ this?" Clint asked plaintively, staring down at his boot-clad foot morosely as Phil sat back with no small amount of triumph.

"Humans don't have the luxury of scaled feet and talons, unfortunately."

Phil levered himself to his feet, looking Clint over with a judicious eye. No SHIELD agent would be allowed that messy mop of hair, but there wasn't exactly time for a haircut. He went over to pick up the bow Clint had been using as a chewtoy, unstringing the cord and bringing it back to use as a makeshift hair tie.

Now he looked like a misplaced surfer. Phil let out a sigh.

"That'll have to do. Come on, I need to get to the bridge before Sitwell gets us shot out of the sky."

He reached down and Clint took his hand with a grin, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet—but it wasn't without a sharp, breathless exhalation, and Phil panicked a moment before his brain reminded him, 'fingertips: one of the most sensitive spots on the human body, second only to the tongue.' He let go hastily as soon as Clint gained his bearings, glancing away and clearing his throat as the other man looked down at his open palm in surprise.

"Right, let's—"

Phil choked on his words as Clint reached out and grabbed his hand again.

Clint's eyes were bright, honest and open with just that hint of mischief that so marked the dragonling. But there was fear, there, and nervousness; the expectation of rejection lingering behind the hopeful look. Phil closed his eyes briefly, taking a moment to collect himself before setting his shoulders and looking back at Clint, smiling. He squeezed his hand gently and Clint shivered, the anxiety fading gratefully into an absolute trust that stole Phil's breath away.

He was so very, very fucked.

If anyone found Agent Phil Coulson striding through the hallways of the SHIELD helicarrier with a rather disheveled, wide-eyed man holding onto his hand, they didn't dare voice it. The two of them got a few puzzled looks, but honestly no one was really surprised anymore when something odd was going on with Phil. Agent Coulson was the Avengers' babysitter, who dealt with kings and gods and enormous green rage monsters, and seeing him dragging along an unknown being wasn't nearly the oddest thing they'd seen him involved in.

(That was probably last week, when the affectionate flying squid-like thing that had a tendency to latch onto people's faces had escaped from Dr. Banner's lab.)

The bridge was busy with activity when they arrived, radars beeping and defense systems blinking their ready status as Sitwell paced in front of the windows, agents darting from station to station. And Sitwell, as soon as he caught sight of Phil, found it in himself to ask the most important question on his mind as they approached.

"Who is that?"

Phil walked past his counterpart to the display screen, bringing up coordinates and ground views with his right hand. Clint was still holding onto his left and Phil didn't have it in him to let go, enjoying the unnatural warmth that emanated from Clint's skin. The dragonling's head was on a swivel as they walked, and he stared at Sitwell with a curious fascination that the other agent seemed to find disturbing.

"Classified."

"Oh, come on—"

"Focus, Sitwell," Phil rebuked mildly. He drummed his fingers against the control panel for a moment, glancing over the sitrep before pulling on a comm headset. "Lieutenant Delahoy, this is Agent Coulson speaking, as requested."

 _"This was not my idea,"_ Delahoy stated bluntly. _"Just so you know."_

Phil's lips twitched in the approximation of a smile. Every branch of the military hated SHIELD on principle, but it was Phil's job to make sure everything ran smoothly between the different agencies. He dealt with the figureheads and the people in charge publically, then turned around and dug through the bureaucracy to make nice with those who actually did the work: the rank-and-file who had to take orders, no matter how stupid.

"I take it we have another disagreement on military-controlled airspace?" Phil asked, bland and calm for Sitwell's sake. Just because he had connections everywhere didn't mean everyone else had to know that. (And everyone would know, if Sitwell did.)

 _"Ross is on my ass **again** ,"_ Delahoy groaned. _"I swear the man has nothing better to do with his life. It's always 'SHIELD this' and 'SHIELD that' and 'terrorists' and 'vigilantes running amok and destroying more than they save'."_

Phil had to privately admit the General was probably right on the last part.

 _"You guys nudged into USAF territory and he's got to have an alert set up or something, because he called down within minutes telling me to give you shit for it; he wants encroachment forms and agency impingement complaints filed and a directors meeting and I just had a_ kid _, Phil, I am running on three hours of sleep and I'm about to stab someone for a cup of coffee so please, please please tell me I do not have to deal with this shit."_

Clint's fingers snuck to twine with Phil's, which didn't help his concentration any, but he still managed to go through the mental List of people who could make the problem go away. The sooner the better, because by the way Clint was shifting beside him, he wasn't going to stay still for much longer.

"I'll have our Air Force liaison get in contact with your superiors," Phil reassured the stressed lieutenant. Colonel Rhodes was an agreeable man who sympathized with what Phil had to put up with daily (namely one Tony Stark), and he would deal with Ross' bureaucratic crap with a grace Phil frankly had no patience for at the moment. "I'm sure this little mishap will be cleared up quickly."

_"I fucking **love you** , man."_

"In the meantime, we'll re-plot our course around USAF airspace."

_"No, seriously, I love you. Can I send you flowers or would that be too gay?"_

"Coulson out," Phil finished, amused. He pulled off the headset and turned around to find Sitwell sulking and Clint eyeing the other agent mistrustfully.

"Don't like him," Clint said flatly as Phil raised an eyebrow at him. "He wants to keep you for himself."

Sitwell's eyes widened comically as the bridge went dead silent around them. Phil struggled to keep his features even, squeezing Clint's hand tightly as he had to choke back the laughter that very unprofessionally wanted to burst forth.

"Come on, let's take you somewhere else," he said, pulling Clint gently in the direction of the door. Sitwell was sputtering as they passed by and Clint stopped in front of him, eyes narrowing into reptilian slits.

" _Mine_ ," the dragonling hissed.

A shiver ran down Phil's spine at the pure _possessiveness_ in Clint's voice. He cleared his throat as Sitwell gaped and strode forward past the slack-jawed agent, dragging Clint with him. As soon as Sitwell was behind them Clint's expression melted back into that easy, bright-eyed look that so marked him, beaming at Phil with all the delight of a child who'd just been handed his favorite toy.

As Phil considered just how many ways Nick was going to threaten him with dismemberment, the mutters of 'must be a new Avenger' followed them out the door.


End file.
